


first I held him lightly

by okaystop



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Background - Jon Favreau/Jon Lovett, Epistolary, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pain, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 01:18:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19937650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okaystop/pseuds/okaystop
Summary: Tommy looked down at their joined hands, stared unblinking for a moment, and then moved away off the bed, letting Dan's hand go. He found his shirt and began buttoning it up to his neck.He looked at Dan. "May I write you?" he asked quietly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Content warning:** This fic contains major character permanent physical injury, which happens off-screen, though the aftermath is dealt with in the story. It also includes discussions of war, grief, and PTSD.
> 
> Inspired by LilyRosePotter's prompt: _Met you at a bar and it turns out you're a soldier and you're getting shipped out to combat tomorrow._
> 
> Big big thanks to fizzy_smile and SelfRescuingPrincess for their wonderful beta work. I couldn't have finished this without you both and you definitely made it better.
> 
> Title is taken from lyrics sometimes used with Glenn Miller's "In the Mood."
> 
> Be sure to check out the notes at the end to see retweet_this's gorgeous art that goes along with this story.
> 
> -

Dan wiped down the bar's counter, pausing to scrape at something sticky dripping down, then tossed the damp towel over his shoulder. He squatted to check under the bar for how many clean glasses he had left, whether or not he had enough to make it through the rest of the night without having to do a wash. He struggled to stand up again, the dull ache always present in his right knee throbbing from long days on his feet. 

It would have to do, he thought. If it was anything like the last few nights, it would be slow. 

The war was raging overseas, and Dan's usual clientele was either already over there, getting ready to ship out, or didn't have enough extra pocket money to spend on warm beer or lousy liquor, let alone the good stuff. His bar, a small, dark establishment tucked away a block from the harbor, mostly found its customers by word of mouth anyway. A safe place for anyone, no questions asked. 

Dan looked up when the door opened. 

Two men came in, regulars that Dan hadn't seen in a while. He gave them a nod and began to get their drinks ready as they lumbered over to take their usual spots at the far end of the bar. 

Dan limped down to them and pushed a tumbler at each with a grimace. "Good to see you both," he said. "How's everything?" They settled into a short, polite conversation that Dan knew better than to linger over. He let them know he'd be there for another round when they were ready for it and made his way back down to wipe out a few dusty glasses rather than washing them. 

A quiet night like this left Dan alone with his thoughts. He tried not to spend evenings like this dwelling on what-ifs or would-bes. But sometimes they crept into his mind. Where he might be now if he hadn't been injured only one month after arriving in North Africa, if he hadn't come home to learn that his brother had been killed overseas, which gave Dan the bar, a business to maintain, and a mountain of debt. It was something, though, something better than spending his days at home, recovering, like he had those few months after coming back, when the pain was unbearable and nothing he did helped at all. It wasn't just physical, wasn't just in his leg.

Dan looked up when the door opened again. 

The man who walked in was tall, vaguely familiar in an odd way he couldn't really describe or pinpoint. Maybe it was just the way he carried himself, a little like every other Boston Brahmin who shouldn't be in a bar like this. 

Or like an Army officer. 

Thinking about it, he reminded Dan a little of a friend of his, still off somewhere in North Africa, although he wasn't sure why. This man wasn't in uniform. 

The man ran his fingers through his neatly trimmed dark blond hair, a wave curling down against his forehead that he didn't push away. Sharp, pale cheekbones, carrying himself confidently even if his eyes searched the room nervously before meeting Dan's. A look of - something, relief? - crossed his face.

Dan's breath caught but he managed a welcoming smile, and the man made his way over to the bar, to the stool in front of Dan. "What can I get you?" 

He grimaced, flattened his hands against the bar top. "Whiskey, please," he said, quietly. "Neat." 

Dan nodded and turned automatically to get the cheap whiskey from behind him, hesitated, then shuffled down the bar to reach up to the top shelf for something a little - a lot, really - smoother. He poured two fingers into a glass and set it out for the man. "Anything else I can do for you tonight?" 

For a moment, he looked like he was going to say something else, but then he shook his head. He wrapped a large hand around the glass. "No, thank you." 

Dan nodded and stepped away, trying not to let himself be drawn in. Sometimes a man just wanted to be left alone with his drink. 

The thing is, he couldn't remove himself completely. 

Dan kept glancing down the length of the bar as the man stared into his glass, not drinking it, not at first. His knuckles bent, strained, around the glass. His throat worked in a swallow. He sat with his back straight, jaw square, both uncomfortable and out of place on the stool, maybe here in the bar, but at the same time, confident and sure of himself. 

The more Dan observed him, the more he felt this lingering ache of familiarity in his stomach. The man was like someone out of a dream, a face glanced at in the crowd then lost. Something pulled Dan toward him, but he kept his feet planted firmly on the floor to keep from walking over to him. He'd been tending bar long enough to read the signs. He was pretty sure he wanted to be left alone. 

Five minutes passed, twenty, a half an hour, before he picked up the glass and swallowed down its contents in one go. He motioned for another with a flick of his wrist, and Dan obliged, leaving the bottle out. "Lovett suggested I come here," the man said after a moment, clearing his throat. He ran a fingertip along the rim of the glass then looked up at Dan. "When I said I was looking for … a reprieve." 

Dan wanted to ask, 'a reprieve, from what?' but held his tongue. "I haven't seen Lovett in a few months," he said instead. 

Jon Lovett was a friend, a regular at the bar, always able to make Dan laugh. He'd spent many an evening with tears in his eyes and a stitch in his side, when Lovett was here. 

"He's somewhere in England," the man said. "Top secret. Haven't heard a word from him in a few months." 

"Never knew Lovett to be too great at keeping secrets." 

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I don't know if he has a choice right now." A beat, and the man held out his hand. "I'm Tommy Vietor," he said. 

Dan wiped off on the towel slung over his shoulder and took it firmly. 

"We met once, about a year ago," he continued. "It's - unlikely that you remember it." 

Dan didn't, not quite. He'd like to think Tommy was memorable, with his smooth tenor and cutting blue eyes. But that explained the familiar feeling he got when he walked in, more now as they talked. It was as if his both his mind and his body wanted to remember their meeting. "I'm sorry," he said, opening his arms in apology. 

Tommy almost smiled. "It's fine. I was with Lovett and Jon Favreau after you came back. You didn't seem to be having a very good day then." 

Dan grimaced, thought back to all his not very good days while he was recovering from his injury, in pain, feeling guilty for leaving - "I had a lot of those." 

Tommy nodded. He lifted the glass to his lips, took a small sip. "I'm being shipped out tomorrow," he said, tone stripped bare. 

Dan looked at him for a long moment. "Where to?" he asked quietly. 

"England," Tommy said. "But I won't be there long. I'm a pilot so I'll - well." 

Dan nodded and tried to put the image of this fresh-faced, serious young man trapped in a burning cockpit out of his mind. "You know, most men like you are eager to get over there and shoot down some Nazis," Dan said. 

Tommy pursed his lips so tightly together that they nearly turned the color of his skin. "I'm a realist. I know the risks, the danger. I know I'm probably not coming home." 

The words punched Dan right in the gut. Everyone knew those risks but most refused to say it out loud. He watched Tommy silently for a moment, the stretch of his shirt across his shoulders, the way a drop of whiskey clung to his lower lip as he finished off the glass. Dan cleared his throat. "Lovett sent you here, you say." 

Tommy looked at Dan, their eyes meeting. "I asked him where I could find you." Tommy had said he hadn't heard from Lovett in months. "It just took me a while to get here." 

Their mutual friends - Lovett and Favs - had met in this bar, had fallen in love here. Dan hadn't watched it all happen but he'd seen enough. Tommy's divulging of knowing Lovett and Favs meant this wasn't just somewhere Tommy wanted to go to get a drink, he was revealing something much more personal. "I can't imagine I was good enough company last time we met to make you seek me out again like this." 

Splotches of pink appeared on Tommy's cheeks. "Are you better company tonight?" 

Tommy's boldness was unexpected, and Dan laughed, the rumble warming his face and stomach. He hadn't laughed like that in a long while. "I am, yes," he said. He leaned on the bar, in toward Tommy. "I've got to keep the place open for another hour or so, if you're willing to wait." 

Tommy's intense eyes turned on Dan's, and he nodded. "Of course I am." 

Dan let his fingers brush against the side of Tommy's hand as he took the glass from him to refill it. When he passed it back, Tommy's thumb slid between his knuckles. "Don't go anywhere," Dan said. 

"I won't." He squeezed his fingertips against Dan's before pulling away and turning back to his drink. 

A little over an hour later, the last customer, besides Tommy, had paid his tab, and Dan dumped the dirty pint glasses into the sink to deal with in the morning. He turned to look at Tommy, who had stopped at the third whiskey. He wore a thousand-yard stare. Dan moved in front of him. "You haven't even gone over there yet," he said, and Tommy snapped out of it, sheepish. "Do you want to get out of here?" Dan asked when Tommy didn't say anything. 

Tommy waited, his hands deep in his pockets, while Dan looked up the bar. He touched Tommy's elbow with only his fingertips. "Why don't we take a walk." 

On the narrow street the bar was tucked into, before it curved along the harbor, the after-midnight air was autumn-crisp, damp, but it wasn't raining. Tommy's shoulder brushed against Dan's, and even though there wasn't anyone else on the street in the middle of the night, Dan didn't reach for his hand like he wanted to. 

"My father fought in the Great War. He didn't want me to enlist, so I didn't. And then I got drafted. He got me out of the infantry and into the Air Corps." He sounded embarrassed, a tired edge to his tone. "I think he hoped it would keep me out of combat, maybe I'd get assigned a shuttling mission or cargo but I - volunteered to go to the front." 

Dan stopped them at a wooden railing, where they could stand and lean, the night's wind at their faces, the moonlight shimmering over the choppy water. "Why?" 

Tommy, leaning forward on his forearms, his hair windswept, looked like every fictional hero Dan used to read about. He looked out into the harbor and breathed in deeply. "I had a dream, about a year ago." He glanced at Dan as though considering whether to continue or not. Dan touched his wrist and left his hand there, fingers curled, holding on. "It was right before I met you, in fact. I hope you don't think this is all ridiculous." Dan squeezed Tommy's wrist and nodded for him to go on, that he didn't find it ridiculous at all, whatever Tommy wanted to tell him. "I dreamt about the war, which isn't really a surprise at all. I was in a plane, somewhere over Germany, tracking a Messerschmitt, when I was shot down. I crash landed in a field. The entire plane was on fire - flames, smoke, burning gas, flesh - I was suffocating." Dan's throat tightened, and he had that flash again, the one of Tommy trapped in a cockpit, and it felt more real now, hearing the same description out of Tommy's mouth. "I don't know how I got out - in that dreamlike way things happen - but I was propped up against a tree and bleeding out. Half my leg was gone." Dan's breath hitched, and he felt bile rise. "There was a letter and a photo in my lap. You know, the way we carry those with us, in case. I couldn't read the letter. It was gibberish. Every word looked like a real one but I just didn't understand, couldn't comprehend, any of it. But the photo - it was of you." 

Dan couldn't be sure what happened next. He wasn't even sure who moved first. Tommy's hands gripped Dan's upper arms like a vise, even as Dan's came up to cup Tommy's cheeks, tilting his face up as though in supplication. He thumbed Tommy's parted lips, felt them, dry and a little bit cracked, right before they kissed. 

There wasn't a huge height difference, but Dan still felt bigger than Tommy, like he could cover him entirely, shield him. His mouth moved against his until he parted his lips, and then Dan stopped thinking. 

The feel of Tommy's mouth under his, how open and willing, hot and wet it was. He tasted like top-shelf whiskey. The way his tight grip on Dan's arms relaxed as he stepped forward, their chests pressed together. The sound Tommy made, a whimper, threatened to turn Dan's insides out. He smelled clean, fresh, with just a hint of the salty sea air clinging to his skin. 

The last thing he wanted to do was break the kiss, but he did anyway. Catching his breath, his forehead pressed against Tommy's. His fingers found their way behind his ear, into his soft hair. "Come home with me?" 

Tommy nodded.

The sun wasn't up yet when Dan woke, feeling the bed move as Tommy sat up. He reached out to flatten his hand against the broad expanse of Tommy's back. His bare skin was hot to the touch. "It's still early," he murmured. Dan's fingers moved over the smattering of freckles on Tommy's skin, a map he would be tracing in his thoughts for days, weeks to come.

Tommy turned, dropping his chin to his shoulder to look at him. "I know. I have to be at the ship at oh-nine-hundred, and I need to go home first." 

Dan shifted, elbows pushing himself off the bed to sit up. The blanket slipped down to his hip. It didn't cover his mangled leg. Tommy stood up to pull on his briefs and trousers, then kneed his way back onto the bed. He covered the scarring at the side of Dan's knee with a large hand. He leaned forward and accepted Dan's kiss, slow and steady at first but growing more intense until Tommy pulled back with a mewl. 

"Do you wish you were still over there?" he asked quietly, ducking his face. 

Dan's fingertips brushed against the bare skin at the side of Tommy's rib cage. "I wish I was going over there with you," he said. 

Tommy curled his hand over Dan's knee. "Did it hurt?" he asked. "Did you think you were going to die?" His tone, though quiet, was urgent, thick. 

"Yes," Dan said, answering both questions. 

Tommy bent over and opened his mouth against the rough scar tissue. He nuzzled the inside of Dan's thigh that wasn't covered by the blanket. Dan's hand found the back of Tommy's head, his fingers slipping into his hair. He groaned. He wanted Tommy between his thighs forever, at the same time as he wanted Tommy under him, mouth burning against his. He nudged Tommy up, let him press his long, lean body against Dan's, and pulled him down for a kiss. Lips parting in a sigh, he wanted to linger in bed, laze the day away with nothing and no one but Tommy tucked around him. 

Tommy pulled back first, sat back on his heels over Dan, and spread a hand against his chest. "I should have sought you out sooner," he said quietly. "But I thought -" He swallowed, turned so his focus was somewhere at the edge of the window. "If I didn't find you, it wasn't real." 

Dan covered his hand, laced their fingers together. "We'll have time," he said. "When you come back, after the war's over." 

Tommy tensed, frozen, and said nothing. He looked down at their joined hands, stared unblinking for a moment, and then moved away off the bed, letting Dan's hand go. He found his shirt and began buttoning it up to his neck. 

Dan had so much more he wanted to say, arguments to make, assurances to give, but they all felt sour and stuck at the back of his mouth. _It was just a dream, Tommy,_ he wanted to say, but even as the words passed through his mind, he wasn't sure he believed them. He knew Tommy wouldn't. Instead, he watched Tommy dress, smooth the wrinkles out of his slacks and shirt. 

Tommy looked at Dan. "May I write you?" he asked quietly. 

Dan sat up, moved to get out of bed but Tommy held up a hand. Dan nodded. "Of course. I'll even write back." 

A smile found its way to Tommy's face, brightened it, made him look even younger. "All right," he said. "Good." He hesitated for a moment, listing toward Dan like he might kiss him again. 

But then he turned to the door and walked out.


	2. Chapter 2

2 October

Dan,

I visited London once when I was a boy. I remember the British Museum, looking like something out of a Greek myth. I remember standing along the river Thames and staring up at Big Ben, striking the hour with a thunderous feeling in my chest. The city was alive. London, today, is hardly that. Ravaged by nightly air raids from the Germans. Quiet and dark with the blackout in effect. Even though people are busy and go on living day-to-day, there's a shroud that hangs over them, over the city. I can feel the grief and the terror thick in the London fog. It seeps into my pores and settles like a brick in my stomach. I'm only here in London for a short time before I transfer to [BLACKEDOUT]. I miss Boston. I miss the way everyone carried on as though a war wasn't happening across the ocean, but I know now that's willful ignorance not reality. I wish there wasn't a war at all. It's hard to feel that way when everyone around me is ready to get going. I thought I'd be more eager once I arrived here, but I just want to go home. I want to spend more than one night with you, a night that was over too soon. We had barely twelve hours together before I had to get on that ship with Boston harbor (and you) at my back. I didn't turn around to watch it fade away. I didn't wave off at those there to see us off. Were you there? I didn't ask you to be but that doesn't mean you didn't show up. I'm sorry that I didn't see your face, if you were. I hope it wasn't my last chance. I saw Lovett yesterday, was able to weasel out of him what he's been up to. He's been staying out in [BLACKEDOUT], part of [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT]. I don't have the mind for it like he does. He looks tired, said he's been living off of stale coffee and two hours of sleep. He hasn't seen Favs in months. Hasn't heard from him in weeks. He won't talk about it. You can send a reply back by way of this post. Even though I'll have moved on to [BLACKEDOUT] by then, it'll eventually make its way to me.

Tommy

*

29 October

Dan,

One of the WASPs has a camera with her, and I asked if she'd take a photograph that I could send to you. It felt a little silly to be posing there in my flying gear, and the wind picked up just before she took it, so that's why my scarf is half covering my face like it is. I haven't named my plane like a lot of the others have done. I've never been good at naming things. I had a dog named Pup when I was younger, and a cat we called Kitty. We've already started flying missions from [BLACKEDOUT] and I'm already up to a half-dozen. I've been fortunate, but I can't say the same about the rest of the men here. Yesterday, when I was sitting out a flight, they flew [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] and we lost [BLACKEDOUT]. The man who sleeps beside me, Rhodes, he's a navigator and he lost his pilot. I don't think he'll ever be the same. I don't even know how he got back alive. I'm going to put in a formal request to have him in my plane. Better than Miller, who was assigned to me in the first place. We're like oil and water, and he doesn't respect that I'm in charge, as the pilot. I understand his point of view; he's been here in [BLACKEDOUT] for longer than I have but it's still my plane, not his. I'm struggling, Dan. I don't want to be here but I know that I have to be, and my job is to run the mission and keep the people around me alive. If it was just me up there in that plane, it would be different, but it's not just me. There's chatter going round about something big on the horizon, that we might [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT]. I miss you.

Yrs.

Tommy

*

25 December

Dan,

This is the first Christmas I haven't spent at home, in my entire life. There isn't much of a Christmas to be had here in [BLACKEDOUT]. We had mince pies and someone made some kind of pudding that tasted a little like dirt mixed with sugar, but we all ate it. We swapped cigarettes and playing cards. One of the men offered to paint my plane for me, though I'm still undecided on a name. It's a different plane. I caught the eye of [BLACKEDOUT] and am moving from my current position of [BLACKEDOUT]. I'm flying a [BLACKEDOUT] now, with a hole in the floor from its last mission. Its previous pilot survived, thank God, but he's convalescing in [BLACKEDOUT] and won't be returning to the air. Rhodes keeps saying I'll make ace in no time, but the very idea of shooting down anyone, even the enemy, sours my stomach. My hands shake just thinking about it. To take another's life, even though you'll never see his face. I'm not cut out for this, Dan. I don't want to do it. I don't think I CAN do it. I want to go home. It's Christmas day and there's no snow and no apple pie from my mother and no turkey and dressing and no gifts to be exchanged. And there's no you. I wish I was back in Boston with you. I'd take you home, introduce you to my parents, to my sister. We'd drink wine and kiss under the mistletoe and build a snowman and trim the tree. It would be the perfect Christmas. This isn't a perfect Christmas, not by far. Tomorrow, I go on my first solo flight, leaving here at [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT]. I'll be thinking of you.

Yrs.

Tommy

*

29 January

Dan,

I've been reassigned. 

[BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT] [BLACKEDOUT]

I miss you. I miss your arms, your hands, your mouth. I can only survive so long on the memories of our one night together. The way you looked at me, the way you said my name, the way you seem to know me better than anyone has ever known me. Even after such a short time. Especially after such a short time. I try not to, but I practically maul the letter-carrier the moment a shipment comes in, hoping to see my name in your crooked handwriting. I keep your letters in my kit, under my bed, though your last I keep inside my flight jacket, along with the photograph you sent. I was surprised to see it, that you sent me your official Army portrait. You look so handsome, so open. It's horrible of me to say, but I prefer the sharpness of your eyes now, after, the way you smile sideways at me. The sound you make when you're touching me. I have so many thoughts, too many things to say to you, and not nearly enough time to say any of it. 

Please keep writing me, even when you don't receive a reply. Please.

Love,  
T


	3. Chapter 3

Dan struggled his way down the steps out of his Pan-Am flight to London, not because of his knee, though it was stiff and sore from the plane ride and he did have trouble with it on the steps, but because when he looked out at the tarmac and saw Lovett standing there waiting, fidgeting, he also saw who was with him. Tommy, pale and thin, his hair cut too short, shoulders slumped forward as he sat in a wheelchair. Dan's breath left his body and he nearly missed the last step in his hurry to cross to the both of them.

Missing in action. 

Those were the words Dan had fixated on for months, since the war ended, since a phone call from Lovett finally came through. When he'd stopped receiving replies from Tommy, of course, he'd suspected the worst. But he didn't know Tommy's family, wasn't his next of kin, would have never been the person to receive one of those dreaded, official letters from the War Department. He lived in isolation, terrified that the last time he'd seen Tommy was his broad shoulders disappearing through the door of his apartment. Then, finally, Lovett called the bar from London, and all Dan could hear was 'we don't know' and 'Favs is looking for him' and 'missing in action.' 

But here he was, alive, right in front of Dan's eyes, and Dan felt like he would never be able to catch his breath or still his heartbeat again. He shifted his bag at his hip, let it fall to the ground as he took an aborted step toward them.

Lovett stopped him, a hand pressed against Dan's shoulder. "Hi, Dan," he said, distracted-like. He leaned in for a brief hug. "Be patient with him," he whispered. "He's - not doing well at all." He stepped away to let Dan focus on Tommy.

Dan's hands shook a little as he walked up to Tommy and said his name.

When Tommy lifted his chin to look up at Dan, his eyes were dark, unfocused. "Hello, Dan," he said flatly. His hands, which were folded against a thick tartan blanket covering his lap and legs, were tight, knuckles cracked and white. 

"I'm really glad to see you," Dan said gently.

He didn't quite meet Dan's eyes, his gaze off somewhere past Dan's ear, and he said nothing.

Lovett picked up Dan's bag and slung it over his shoulder. "Come on. Jon's waiting with the car." He glanced at Dan and then at Tommy, and Dan took it to suggest he should go ahead and push the wheelchair. But as soon as he stepped around and got a hand on it, Tommy's fingers clamped down around his wrist.

"I can do it," he said sharply, and proceeded to slowly wheel himself away from Lovett and Dan.

Dan fell into step beside Lovett, biting his tongue. Tears stung at the back of Dan's eyes, unwanted and sharp. He fought them off, his fist clenching at his side. He wanted to focus on Tommy fighting with the rough surface of the tarmac and the thin wheels on his chair, but looking at him was too much. He choked on nothing and, beside him, Lovett stopped. He put a hand on Dan's arm. "He's alive, okay? That's what's important here. He might not see it that way, but it's the truth. I'm glad you're here. He needs you here. He just -"

But of the two of them, Dan was the one who'd gone through this. Maybe not exactly what Tommy had gone through - shit, Dan had no idea what Tommy had actually gone through - but a war injury, at least. It took him months to get back to some semblance of normal, though he knew he'd never really be the same person he was before his time in North Africa, before he took a bullet to the side of his knee and nearly had it ripped right off. He didn't think he'd ever walk again, but here he was, unsteady and limping, sure, but walking. He didn't know what happened to Tommy, especially not what happened in his mind, but he was certain he'd get through it to the other side. Dan was willing to be there for him as long as it took.

Dan nodded vaguely, and started walking again as the car came into sight. Jon Favreau leaned against it and pushed off with a wide, gap-toothed smile. "Dan," he said, pulling him into a tight hug. "It's good to see you. How was the flight?" He nodded at Lovett as he put Dan's bag into the trunk and slammed it.

"It was fine. Long. I'm glad to be back on solid ground again."

"We're so glad you're here," Jon said, in that eagerly sincere way of his. It didn't seem like the war had affected him at all, at least on the surface. Dan couldn't imagine that what Jon had done, top secret intelligence work, hadn't taken its toll on him. 

Tommy made a half-snort noise beside them, the most reaction Dan had seen outside of the tight grip on his wrist. He masked it with a cough, shoulders hunched forward and head bowed. "Are you -?" Dan stopped when Tommy put up a hand to silence him. He frowned.

"Right, Dan go ahead and take the front seat," Jon said, and Dan walked around the car and opened the door. He paused, a hand on the door handle, and watched. 

Lovett picked up the tartan covering Tommy's lower half, folding it and tucking it under his arm. Once gone, Dan could see Tommy's injuries. His legs were - all that was left were stumps at the knees, tied off with the dark gray material of his trousers. He must have audibly reacted, because Tommy turned a dark gaze on him, cheeks shallow and pale, even as Jon lifted him into his arms and tucked him into the backseat.

Dan had to steady himself against the roof of the car for a moment before he could climb inside, facing forward, no matter how much he wanted to turn around and tell Tommy that it was okay, it was fine, this didn't change anything, he was _here_ , and Tommy was alive. 

Being alive, Dan quickly learned, was relative. 

He'd spent two weeks so far at Lovett and Jon's rented house a short drive outside of London, and he and Tommy hadn't shared more than a few short, curt conversations. Every expectation that Dan had since the moment Tommy walked into his bar back in Boston had been drained out of him. He didn't know what to do.

He stood in the cramped kitchen, where he could angle himself just right to look out the window at the back garden, where Tommy sat in his wheelchair every morning, alone. The first morning, Dan had tried to join him, and Tommy very firmly told him to fuck off. 

Jon stepped up beside Dan, a mug of tea in each hand. He offered one to Dan. "We had hoped you'd be able to get through to him," he said quietly.

Dan's shoulders tensed. He put more weight on his good leg as he shifted and breathed out. "I'm trying to be patient," he said. Outside, Tommy lifted his face up to the sky, winced, then hunched forward again. He hadn't asked, hadn't pressed for any details. But he knew that if he was going to get through to Tommy, he would need more. He turned away from the window and looked at Jon. "Tell me what happened."

For a moment, Jon was silent. His shoulders lifted and fell before he spoke. "I don't know the whole story. He was found in one of the German prisoners of war camps, when it was liberated. I don't know how long he was there. Maybe close to a year, but maybe he went other places first. I don't know. He almost didn't make it."

"When did he lose his legs?" Dan asked tightly.

Jon shook his head. "They had to take them. If he hadn't been in the camp, he might still have one of them, but - it wasn't possible."

Dan nodded a few times, letting Jon's words settle uncomfortably inside of him. Take what happened to Dan, force it to the extreme, and that's what happened to Tommy. Hell if he knew how to help though. "How long was he here before Lovett called me?"

"Here as in, our house? Less than a day. He was in the hospital for three weeks before that. I didn't - Lovett wanted to call you sooner but I worried he'd never get out of the hospital and didn't think you needed to see him like that."

He clenched his fist at his side, steadied his breathing, and reminded himself that Jon didn't deserve his ire. "I would have come sooner," he finally said.

Jon swallowed. "I know."

Dan rubbed his face and turned away from the window, shouldering past Jon. "I'm through with this," he said sharply. "I'm done waiting for him to ask or talk or do _anything_. I can't let him throw the rest of his life away, wasting away like this."

A flush swept across the bridge of Jon's nose, and he nodded. "Good," he said. He reached out and squeezed Dan's upper arm, just briefly. "Good."

Dan lingered outside of Tommy's bedroom, leaning forward toward the door trying to hear whether Tommy was awake or not. He didn't hear anything besides the normal odd sounds of this very old British house - a creak of the wind against the outside walls, a cough from down the hall, maybe Favs, the low murmur of his and Lovett's conversation. Then, behind it all, something that sounded a little like tight breathing. A muffled cry.

Dan pushed the door open quietly and stepped inside. 

It was dark, the only light from the clouded moonlight filtering through the curtains. He could barely see Tommy, half propped up against the headboard. He was hunched forward, fisting the heavy quilt under him.

"Tommy?" Dan said, gently, staying by the door even though he wanted to walk over to him.

"No," Tommy said. "Go away."

Dan was tired of hearing him say no, tired of walking on eggshells around him, tired of not being able to touch him. He was tired of pretending like it didn't hurt, like he had no idea what Tommy was going through even though he did know. He knew enough.

Ignoring Tommy's directive, something he should have been doing since he set foot on English soil, Dan hobbled to the bed and sat on the edge. He turned his body to face Tommy, who refused to look at him. Slowly, he reached out, set a hand against Tommy's thigh. 

Tommy jerked away as if he'd been burned, hissing. "Don't," he gasped. "Please."

"Tommy," Dan said gently. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm staying here, with you. And when you're ready to go home, I'll go with you. I'll take you there - home."

For a long moment, Tommy said nothing. His shoulders tensed and he leaned forward, nearly folding himself in half. He made a sound, like a keening half-sob, half-moan. When he lifted his head, tear-streaks sparkling in the moonlight on his pale, hollow cheeks. "Why?" The word emerged, punched out of him.

Dan blinked. "Why would I not?"

Now, Tommy laughed, or something as near to a laugh as it was to a cry, a sound that struck hard in Dan's chest. A hopeless sound. "Why do you even want to? I'm not -" he said. "I wanted to die. I - _want_ to die. You shouldn't - no one should see me like this. I'm not - I should be _dead_."

It was nothing that Dan hadn't thought, said to his nurses, at one time or another while he was recovering. And he didn't have nearly the lasting injuries that Tommy had. He hadn't _lost his legs_. But he could be there for Tommy in a way no one had been for him. God help him, he could do it. He needed to.

He fisted his hand against the quilt and looked at Tommy. "I'm really glad you didn't, you aren't."

Tommy almost choked, shaking his head. It was the most emotion that Dan had seen from him. Tommy had bottled it all up and kept it to himself, for the privacy of his bedroom, in the dead of night. 

"It's not going to be easy," Dan said quietly, inching his way along the edge of the bed until he could curl a palm over Tommy's shoulder and slide in beside him. He went slow enough to let Tommy pull away again, if he wanted. He didn't pull away, and Dan breathed out tightly. "It's not. It's going to be hard, and you know that. It's already hard. But you're not alone. You don't have to do any of this alone."

Tommy hiccuped and shook his head, just a little, then turned and pressed his forehead into the side of Dan's neck. His face was wet and hot against Dan's skin. Dan lifted a hand and threaded his fingers into the hair at the back of Tommy's head. "I can't -"

Dan pressed his lips together tightly. "You _can_ ," he whispered. "We _will_."

Tommy turned his body in against Dan, shaking a little. He pressed his fist against Dan's stomach. 

A gust of wind howled, staccato against the window panes. Dan closed his eyes and tucked his mouth against the top of Tommy's head. "I'm not going anywhere, Tommy. I'm staying right here." _With you._

**Author's Note:**

> Absolutely amazing art inspired by this fic was created by retweet_this, as part of Dan Bang 2019, and can be found on tumblr: 
> 
> [CLICK HERE RIGHT NOW TO SEE IT!](https://stassischrodinger.tumblr.com/post/186492467167/first-i-held-him-lightly-by-okaystop-for-dan-bang)


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